


The Wolf, The Princess, And The (Reluctant) Bard

by NerdyBirdy6602



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon is So Done, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Apologies, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is a Mess, Good Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Episode: s01e08 Much More, Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:07:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyBirdy6602/pseuds/NerdyBirdy6602
Summary: Geralt has finally found Ciri. His sole duty now is to keep her out of the hands of Nilfgaard, but a bounty rises over Jaskier's head. He must find his bard and keep him safe, but will Jaskier even want to see him? Will Jaskier ever be able to forgive him? Only time will tell.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

“Geralt, you need to find Jaskier.”

Ciri had been mentioning this for a few weeks now, ever since they saw a Nilfgaardian bounty with the description: “Wanted: Geralt of Rivia’s bard (Alive). Answers to Jaskier, Dandelion, and Julian Alfred Pankratz. Reward of 500 orens upon delivery to Nilfgaard.” Apparently, word hadn’t spread of their little spat on the mountain, which made Jaskier a living, breathing target. It was only a matter of time before the wrong people found Jaskier and turned him over to Nilfgaardian forces. Geralt knew this, but he also knew that the bard would never want to see him again. Having a few years to reflect, he knew what he’d said out of anger was wrong.

The first hint that he’d caused irreparable damage was the following spring. Jaskier didn’t send a letter of his whereabouts or a plan to meet. Geralt had brushed it off, assuming they’d meet somewhere close to Kaer Morhen. But when Jaskier didn’t show up once the whole season, he knew that this wasn’t coincidence. Jaskier was pissed, and rightfully so. Still, the Witcher had hoped that perhaps the bard would give him a chance to apologize and make amends.

Over the following years, he had sent letters to Lettenhove and Oxenfurt, just in case something was truly wrong. However, reports told him that he was thriving as a professor of the arts, teaching music lessons and writing ballads at Oxenfurt. The news that Jaskier was doing well had stung in a way he hadn’t expected. Although he couldn’t place the feeling, Ciri often reminded him that it was regret. Still, he spent his time ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest and focused on keeping Ciri safe.

There came a day when they’d stopped for camp in the woods, and Ciri refused to leave. Geralt assumed it was just a child having a tantrum, especially since this was a royal child raised by Calanthe. This girl would know how to fight to get her way. Geralt wasn’t having it.

“Cirilla, we have to go. Get on Roach.”

“Not until you decide to go to Oxenfurt,” she shouted, stomping on the forest floor. “You’re deciding to abandon a man, and for what? Because you’re worried he’ll turn you away? He could die, or worse, and it would be our fault!”

The Witcher shushed her quickly, listening to see if anyone was near enough to hear. The woods were still with only the sounds of rustling foliage and birds chirping. His Witcher sense couldn’t detect anything abnormal, but he still fixed the impudent girl with a glare. She didn’t flinch, and instead gave him a sneer to match.

“We are not going to Oxenfurt,” he chastised. “It’s much too populated and they will recognize you. Besides, Jaskier is a respected member of their society. They will protect him.”

“By doing what, exactly? Singing the soldiers to death? Beating them over the head with their lutes?”

Geralt sighed. He knew that much to be true. Oxenfurt couldn’t do much to stop brute force. The most they could do would be to hide him, but Jaskier was never one to go quietly. People constantly underestimated him, but Geralt knew better. The bard wasn’t a coward in any sense of the word. There was a fire lit in him, one that could easily lead to his own demise. What choice did he have?

“To Oxenfurt, then.”

The trip was only a day’s journey away, as they had already been on the outskirts of Redania. When he arrived at the Academy, many of the scholars gave him wary glances. Geralt remembered briefly studying here with courses such as astronomy, but he felt out of place now. He didn’t belong here among them, and he didn’t have the first clue as to where to find his bard. The Witcher dismounted from Roach and instructed the girl to remain where she was.

“Master Witcher,” a nearby student called out, approaching him with a lute in hand. “We have no need for a monster hunter. Why have you come here?”

“I come seeking my bard,” he replied, annoyed. “Where can I find Jaskier?”

“You have no business with him,” the bard-in-training sneered. “He came here to escape you.”

“There is a bounty over his head,” Geralt hissed. “He is not safe here, but he will be safe somewhere else. If you care about your beloved professor at all, you will take me to him.”

This gave the student pause. Then, he nodded to a building behind him. “The lecture hall, you’ll find him there. Class just let out. He won’t be pleased.”

Geralt pushed past him, leading Roach by the reins. He gave Roach a pat before offering Ciri a hand to help her down. Steeling himself, he took the girl’s hand and walked through the building to the lecture hall. Here, he heard a very familiar voice singing a disheartening melody.

“The fairer sex, they often call it. But her love’s as unfair as a…”

The voice trailed off as Geralt made his presence known, but Jaskier didn’t turn around. The bard sighed, setting down his lute. In a tired voice, he muttered, “Listen, I already said my office hours are cancelled for the evening. I’ll have to ask you to…”

Jaskier turned around and immediately froze. His mouth was wide open, his eyes glazed over, and his muscles were tense. Geralt felt his heart clench at the sight of him. So much had changed over the years. The bard had kept his physical youthfulness, but his eyes gave off this tired weariness that proved his age. No longer was he the happy-go-lucky fool looking for an adventure. The Witcher felt sick at the thought of breaking this man’s spirit single-handedly.

His thoughts were interrupted by Jaskier attempting to charge past him. Geralt held out his hand, and muttered, “Jask, we need to talk.”

“No. Nope. Absolutely not,” the bard seethed, trying in vain to shove the hand away. “Get the fuck out of my way!”

“Jaskier, calm down,” Geralt attempted to soothe, but to no avail.

“You show up here and expect me to listen to you? Shut up! You said your piece all those years ago. Remember that? You turned a petty argument into a permanent farewell. That’s your fault! So no, I don’t have to listen to you try and convince me why you thought I deserved to be abandoned.”

“Julian!”

That got Jaskier quiet. The Witcher never used his given name. It was always Jaskier or just simply ‘bard.’ The shock alone at hearing the unfamiliar moniker was enough to silence him, but he also knew that this had to be serious. For the first time, he noticed the young girl beside him, and everything clicked.

“You’ve claimed your Child Surprise. Of course you have, Cintra is in pieces now. Melitele above, and Calanthe used to be so good to me.”

“She loved your music,” Ciri piped up, revealing herself from her cloak. “You were always her first choice, but you were in high demand towards… the end. Cintra always welcomed you with open arms.”

Jaskier kneeled, smiling sadly at the girl. The last time the two had met, briefly, it was at yet another royal banquet. She had been much younger, but he remembered the way her smile lit up the entire ballroom. Such a happy child didn’t deserve this fate, and yet here they were. Calanthe was dead, her court imprisoned or murdered, and her kingdom near ruins.

Gently, he whispered, “Thank you, dear. Your grandmother’s court was a place of high prestige. I was happy to play.”

“You’re a wanted man,” Geralt told him, interrupting the rather sweet moment. “Nilfgaard is willing to pay any sum to find you.”

“Which is why I begged Geralt to come to Oxenfurt,” Ciri filled in. “Jaskier, they can't protect you here. Nilfgaard will tear this place apart and torture you to death.”

Jaskier frowned, thinking through his options. Then, he asked, “Why me? I’m nothing to either of you. I was just a bard. Even now, I’m a mere professor of trouvreship and poetry!”

“They think you’re still my bard. You made—”

Jaskier held up a hand, eyes narrowed at the Witcher. “I was never anyone’s anything, clearly, or else I wouldn’t be here. Still, I can see where they may have gotten the impression.”

Geralt winced, averting his gaze. Every word was the truth, this much he knew, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. His supposedly non-existent heart sank at the very thought of breaking his companion’s spirits in such a way. Perhaps Witchers were meant to travel alone not for the sake of their own focus, but to protect those who dared care about such a beast.

“They won’t believe you,” Ciri pointed out. “You could say you haven’t seen each other in decades, and they’d only kill you. Please… I’ve watched so many die at their hands. I beg of you, let me keep one innocent man out of their clutches. We’ll ride to Kaer Morhen, and we’ll be safer there. Please?”

Jaskier gave a slow nod, and then smirked. “Alright, Princess. Give me an hour to gather my things and leave a letter to the Headmaster, and I—”

The bard was cut off by a loud commotion coming from the courtyard. It sounded like a simple argument among students at first, but soon he heard the clash swords and screams of anguish. It took a moment to process, but he felt his stomach churn as he realized Nilfgaard was only a few steps behind him. On instinct, he grabbed his lute and looked to Geralt with unadulterated fear.

“My horse is in the stables, near the exit to campus,” Jaskier explained, opening the back door to the lecture hall. “They can’t see the Princess. Now, come on!”

The bard led the way through the halls, with Cirilla close behind him and Geralt bringing up the rear. He drew his sword, ready to find a stray soldier. Surprisingly, no one must have revealed Jaskier’s whereabouts because no one followed the trio. Geralt admired their loyalty to their beloved professor, and prayed that Nilfgaard was swift, rather than deciding to give each of them a prolonged death. The shouts of conflict grew faint as they left through the back of the building. Waiting right outside the door was none other than Roach, who had fled from the chaos.

“Oh, hello old girl,” Jaskier whispered. “Missed you.”

Geralt silently praised that his mare was intelligent enough to flee, and carefully helped Ciri atop the saddle. At least that way, she was up and away from danger and could flee if need be. Gripping the edge of the reins to guide her away, he gestured for Jaskier to lead the way. Jaskier was frozen, however, as he stared towards the source of the chaos.

“I’ve killed them just by being here,” he spoke, the horror evident in his eyes. “And yet they defend me. They all deserved better. Fuck!”

“Jaskier, we have to go,” Geralt urged gently. “Lead the way.”

Reluctantly, the bard shook his head and ran for the stables. Ciri nudged Roach forward with a swift kick, and Geralt kept vigil behind them. They still had halfway to go, and Geralt was unnerved by the fact that they hadn’t seen a single soldier. It wasn’t right. The Witcher quickly found out why when he saw a line of Nilfgaardian soldiers coming from the exit.

“They have us surrounded,” Geralt realized. “They’re not working front to back, but rather outside to in. Stay here, both of you.”

The Witcher rummaged through his pack to find his last samum bomb. He tossed it into the line of soldiers and watched the hot, desert winds erupted into the air. The soldiers cowered, calling out to their comrades as they were blinded and stunned by the power of the bomb. Quickly thereafter, he casts Aard and sends the unsuspecting enemies flying back into a brick building. Not seeing or hearing any more approaching, he ushered the bard and his ward forward.

“There you are, Cinnamon. There’s a good girl,” Jaskier cooed when they finally reached the stable. He very quickly and efficiently tacked his horse, mounting her and riding out of the stables. The bard gave the Witcher a pointed look. “Well? Where the hell are we going?”

Geralt climbed atop Roach, settling behind Ciri and taking the reins. With only a nudge, Roach knew exactly where to go at full gallop. Jaskier was surprisingly close behind, Cinnamon’s pace hardly lagging behind. They kept this pace for half an hour and, when Geralt saw that no one was coming for them, eased his mare into a trot.

As Cinnamon followed suit, Jaskier felt his stomach churn at the thought of leaving Oxenfurt to face Nilfgaard. Some stupid, valiant part of him wanted to charge back and try to save as many as possible, but what did he expect? A Witcher, a princess, and a bard-turned-professor couldn’t take on a fleet of soldiers. The most he could do for them was write a ballad in their honor. So he left feeling nauseous and cold, silently promising that he would avenge his students and fellow faculty for attempting to defend him.

“It’s getting dark,” Geralt called behind him. “Once we reach a clearing, we’ll make camp for the evening.”

Jaskier huffed, as if to say that he heard the man but didn’t wish to dignify that with a response. He grimaced at the thought of how awkward their journey would be. After all this time to contemplate what his heart desired, Jaskier couldn’t tell if he wanted the Witcher back in his life or hated him with a passion. Geralt, in all honesty, was an asshole of a friend. He pushed people away and constantly claimed he travelled better alone, despite obviously longing for a companion. Still, there was a white knight in there somewhere that thrived off saving others, and that was what attracted the bard to him in Posada all those years ago.

He knew one thing for certain: Never again would he beg for human decency. No one could do that to him, not even Geralt. Before, he had assumed that cruel words were the price of his company, but he was wrong. It was only a foolish desperation to be loved that brought Jaskier to put up with such treatment. Now he was older and wiser with the balls to stand up for himself. It didn’t matter if Geralt regretted every word and apologized profusely. No one deserved to be shunned for merely existing.

“We’re here.”

Jaskier dismounted quickly, sifting through his saddlebags to find two sugar cubes. The first he fed to Cinnamon, patting her neck. The second he gave to Roach without so much as glancing at Geralt for permission. The mare ate it eagerly, butting Jaskier’s shoulder in thanks.

“Yeah, I missed you too, Roach.”

Geralt was quick to set up camp, laying out his and Ciri’s bedrolls. Jaskier took the time to help the girl down, twirling the girl to get her to giggle before setting her down on the ground. Her laugh was infectious, and Jaskier smiles at her. Childishly, he bows.

“Your wish is my command, Princess Cirilla.”

“Ciri,” she corrected, her smile dimming just slightly. “Thank you, Jaskier. Perhaps… you could sing for us? Later, if you’re willing. I haven’t heard music in ages!”

The bard grinned back at her, shaking his head in fake dismay. “Oh dear, you’ve done it now. Asking a bard to perform? Absolute blasphemy! Think about a request while we set up here, alright? Run along now.”

Ciri did as asked, leaving Jaskier to sift through whatever supplies he might have had in his saddlebags. He found a spare stash of orens, at least enough for a room at a cheap inn. He dug through to find a few more knick knacks, but he couldn’t find anything useful. Unfortunately, he hadn’t planned on camping out in the woods, so there wasn’t a bedroll in sight. The bard groaned, fully prepared to sleep on the cold, hard ground until they reached Kaer Morhen.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called out, holding out an extra blanket. “This should hold you over until we have beds to sleep in.”

The bard doesn’t take it, instead standing with his hands on his hips. With Ciri off gathering firewood, Jaskier didn’t mind having this conversation now. Judging by the way that Geralt stared at him expectantly, the Witcher didn’t have a clue that a fight was brewing. With clenched fists, he turned his back to the man.

“No, thank you,” he spat. “I’d hate to burden you any further. I’m back on your hands. Life has revoked your blessing. To take something from you… Well, I’d hate to be in your debt.”

The Witcher set the blanket down, sighing as he took a step forward. He should have seen this coming, really. The bard was always stubborn. This situation surely wasn’t anything different. If anything, Jaskier was even more spiteful since he’d been betrayed by someone meant to protect him.

“Jaskier, it’s not like that. I… I didn’t mean what I said. You have to know—”

The bard whipped his head around and snapped, “Oh, I just have to know that you didn’t mean it? I’d be a fool not to see it! I mean, you’re just so good at showing me exactly how you feel. I don’t even have to hear an apology because you’re the almighty Witcher and I’m just your barker.”

“That’s not—”

“Oh, fuck you! You had your chance to talk,” he seethed, his whole body shaking with too much anguish for him to process. “You made yourself quite clear. I’m nothing to you. And it’s interesting because I gave you everything I had to offer! The best years of my life came and went, and what do I get in return? Nothing. Absolutely nothing, but I could take that. My hero, my knight in shining armor, needn’t do anything but stay! And still, still you abandoned me. For what? Because the sexy mage was mad at you for forcing her hand? Or was she mad at you for binding the Lion Cub of Cintra to your fate and then abandoning her? You’ve done so much shit over the decades that I don’t even know!”

Geralt visibly flinched at the verbal assault, taking a step back as if he’d received a blow. He supposed that he deserved that after everything. As Geralt tried to come up with something more to say, Ciri returned with a bundle of sticks in her hands. She glanced between the pair, noticing the tension in the air. Her voice is what cut through the pregnant silence.

“Geralt, make the fire please,” she playfully demanded, clearly trying to separate them. Then, she looked at Jaskier and said, “I’ve discovered my request. I want to hear the last song you wrote.”

Jaskier pales, but picks up his lute nonetheless. As Geralt built the fire, Jaskier sat in the grass at the edge of their little camp. He strummed the instrument with care, assuring himself that it was perfectly in tune. Ciri, rather than sitting across from him as his audiences often did, sat beside him and leaned her head on his shoulder. He smiled weakly at how eager she looked to hear a song.

“Are you quite sure you want this one? It isn’t my happiest tune.”

“Just play, Jaskier.”

He laughed incredulously at the child’s sass before clearing his throat. Jaskier strummed the opening notes before singing, “You look like I need a drink he winked as he slipped from my grasp to the bar / And you are? / He said me? Little me? / He called from the brink of the day / He said ´Hey darling hey, hey darling hey´ / I’m the hardest goodbye that you’ll ever have to say.”

Geralt heard the singing and was comforted for a moment. The voice called back to the simpler days, when his biggest problem was clearing his name and trying to shake a pesky boy from his travels. He remembered when Jaskier received that lute on their first adventure together. Filavandrel had been kind enough to replace the one he’d broken in the first place. Jaskier praised that lute, saying that it must be magic seeing as the strings never needed replacing and it never showed its age. It wasn’t until he listened to the lyrics that his heart sank.

“I promise you I’m not broken / I promise you there’s more / More to come, more to reach for, more to hurl at the door / Goodbye to all my darkness, there’s nothing here but light / Adieu to all the faceless things that sleep with me at night/ This here is not makeup, it’s a porcelain tomb / And this here is not singing, I’m just screaming in tune,” Jaskier belted, giving a pointed look to Geralt’s outline made by dim firelight.

Geralt could feel the eyes on him, but actively chose to ignore them. He already knew the song was written after the mountain, but it did show the depth of Jaskier’s anger. The Witcher realized that Jaskier’s anger wasn’t just outward. No, Jaskier hated himself for opening up to him. He remembered one of the last conversations they’d had before Geralt pushed him away. Jaskier invited him to the coast to get away, and what had Geralt done? He walked away and ran to Yennefer’s side instead. What would have happened if he’d taken the invitation?

“You brought me through this darkness but you left me here behind / And so long to the person you begged me to be / He’s down. He’s dead / Now take a good long look at what you’ve done to me,” Jaskier ended in a near whisper, strumming the final chords before glancing at Ciri, who looked purely enthralled. “Was that a satisfactory performance?”

Ciri gave a small smile before nodding, squeezing his arm in a sideways hug before whispering, “Very much so. It didn’t have to be a happy song to please me. Thank you, Jaskier.”

Meanwhile, Geralt could only sit aside and wonder what he had done to his poor bard, and was their relationship irreparable? Whether he had the potential to salvage it or not, he had to try. For now, though, he merely relished in the fact that Jaskier wasn’t captured by Nilfgaard and tortured because of his association with the White Wolf. He had to cherish the small victories, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier jolted awake in the middle of the night for seemingly no reason. The first thing he noticed was something draped over him. He expected it to be the blanket Geralt offered him earlier and was ready to be quite annoyed, but found it was Ciri’s cloak instead. A smile came to his lips at the thought of the girl caring about him. He barely knew her, but already he’d grown attached and he knew he’d do anything in his power to keep her safe. 

The second thing he noticed was the sound of outright sobbing. He scanned his surroundings for the source, and found Geralt slowly rousing from his meditative stance and looking to Ciri beside him. She was thrashing around on the forest floor, crying out in terror. It was heartbreaking to hear the girl who had been sharing in his love of music mere hours ago was now writhing in agony.

The third, and most alarming, thing he noticed was a whirling wind of leaves and brush rising from the forest floor and swirling around her. Jaskier was reminded of the time Duny declared the Law of Surprise, and Calanthe had tried to decline. Pavetta had thrown a fit much like this one and that was while Pavetta was conscious. Cirilla was unaware of her power as she slept. What would she be capable of when she was awake?

He approached the girl and dodged debris as he approached. The bard glanced up at Geralt to see his melancholy expression. With a puzzled expression, he asked, “Does this happen often?”

“Every night. She doesn’t wake when prompted. She’ll scare herself awake in a few moments. A healer called it a night terror. She never remembers them when morning comes, which is a blessing in and of itself, I suppose,” Geralt answered, only watching the girl scream into the night. For Jaskier’s benefit, he added, “She inherited her mother’s power, Calanthe thought it would skip the girl, just as it had skipped her. Instead, Ciri has… far too much chaos for a child.”

“Poor girl,” he crooned, trying to think of a way to remedy the situation. As a last resort, he retrieved his lute and began to strum. His voice carried through the air delicately as he began to sing, “Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant / Ar hyd y nos / ‘Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant,’ / Ar hyd y nos.”

Ciri doesn’t wake. Instead, as Jaskier’s voice continued to sing the old elvish lullaby, the girl’s thrashing ceased. The screams turned to whimpers, and then silence. The storm that seemed to surround Ciri settled as leaves fluttered back to their rightful place on the ground. Her frown quirked into a smile, and the bard relaxed. His voice faded as the lullaby came to a close, and Geralt was currently staring at him as if he had three heads.

“What the fuck are you staring at?”

Geralt raised a brow. “Since when do you speak Elder?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, rising to his feet with his lute cradled in his hand. So now the Witcher decided to take a personal interest in him? This all came years too late, and Jaskier was properly livid. With a sneer, he replied, “Since before I met you. Good night, Witcher.”

As Jaskier trudged back to his sleeping space on the forest floor, the word Witcher hit Geralt harder than he expected. Jaskier almost never referred to him by his title, and the way he said it made it sound like poison. The first, and only, time he’d said it was in Posada and even that was with an air of wonder. After that, they were on a first name basis. Sure, Geralt had called him “bard” pretty frequently, but…

Suddenly, mouth dry, he realized he didn’t have a well-meaning excuse.

Geralt didn’t sleep again that evening, or manage to slip into meditation. His mind was too loud, chastising himself for his own foolishness. He felt sick, a feeling quite foreign to a Witcher. Still, he sits in silence, observing the camp and watching the sun rise on the horizon. Ciri was the first to stir, blinking awake and releasing a loud yawn. Geralt held back a small smirk, turning his face away from her to watch Jaskier. As he expected, the man was sprawled on the ground like a starfish. It was odd for Geralt when they’d first met. Witchers slept guarded with a hand on a dagger underneath his pillow in case anyone approached and curled to protect the vital organs. Jaskier didn’t have the same regard.

“You’re being weird,” Ciri pointed out, shoving his arm. “Talk to him like a normal person.”

Geralt snapped his head toward her, a withering scowl on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

Jaskier arose shortly thereafter, rubbing his eyes and squinting against the morning sun. He returned the cloak to Ciri, thanking her profusely before gathering his things and packing them in Cinnamon’s saddlebags. The child left the Witcher to gather their supplies and instead tugged petulantly on Jaskier’s arm. Softly, she asked, “Can I ride with you? Geralt’s being mopey this morning and you’re far more fun, even on his better days.”

Jaskier laughed heartily at that, nodding in response. “You may, my dear. In fact…”

He hoisted the girl up on to Cinnamon, making sure she was settled before backing away. He waved up at her, a smile gracing his lips. Ciri was gently brushing Cinnamon’s mane, patting her and cooing. It was an innocent moment that made him grateful he could give her an extra moment of childish glee. He tapped her leg and called out, “Cinnamon could use a break from carrying me around, and now I have both hands free to play the lute for you, my dear. How about that?”

“Oh, I’d like that very much,” she mumbled bashfully, her cheeks flushed. Geralt never treated her with kid gloves, and it had been a long while since someone had treated her nicely just for the sake of doing so. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “Thank you, Jaskier.”

The bard smiled easily at her. He realized in the moment that Ciri reminded him of his little sisters back in Lettenhove. When he ran away from his home, abandoning them was his greatest regret. He tried not to think of them, lest he fall into his own guilt, but Ciri reminded him of his best memories at the estate.

Shaking himself from his revelry, he pointed out, “I suppose I should thank you for lending your cloak for the evening. I appreciate not freezing.”

The girl shooed him away, dismissing the thanks as something anyone would do for a friend. Jaskier merely hummed, gathering the rest of his meager supplies. He saw Geralt from the corner of his eye packing up their makeshift camp. With a confused frown, the Witcher studied the bard.

“Not riding? We’re going quite a ways,” Geralt warned.

“Never stopped me when I travelled with you,” Jaskier quipped back.

Without another word, Geralt mounted Roach and set off in the direction of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier immediately began to strum a melody. Part of this was spite. He knew just how much Geralt claimed to despise his singing along the Path. The Witcher claimed it was distracting, and then in later years plainly claimed the singing was awful. That was fine. Jaskier was far more self-assured these days than he had been all those years ago. He didn’t need Geralt’s approval or validation for anything.

He wondered, briefly, if that statement would become the truth if he just kept saying it.

Meanwhile, Geralt was tortured by the thoughts of their past. He remembered how frustrated he was when Jaskier painted him to be some sort of saint. Melitele herself knew that he would never be the man that the ballads made him out to be. Now, he wanted nothing more than for the bard to sing a rousing rendition of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” like it was the old days. An apology constantly rested on the tip of his tongue, but he knew those words alone wouldn’t be enough. So, he took this in stride as best as he could and tried to close off his heart the way many men already thought he did.

“Fuck’s sake,” Cirilla called aloud as they started their journey. “Are you two going to be this obnoxious the whole time?”

Jaskier laughed at the curse spilling from the girl’s lips, while Geralt only gaped from afar. The Witcher had tried to keep his Child Surprise away from such vulgarity, but it appeared his attempts were in vain. The bard gave the girl a wink, as if to commend her on a job well done.

“Like what, Ciri? We’ve only just started,” Geralt griped without turning around.

“You told me you two were friends,” she argued. “I expected you two to be happy to see each other at least a little!”

Jaskier frowned, patting Ciri’s leg as he walked beside the horse. He hated to see any child in distress, so he tried to ease her mind by explaining, “We’re just having a rough bought, darling dear. I can’t say how long it’ll last, but… Well, friends fight sometimes. It just happens.”

Even to his own ears, the words echoed off false joy. He had no hope of reconnecting with Geralt. The Witcher’s words had cut too deep this time, and he hadn’t made an effort so far to repair things between them. Judging by the grunt Geralt gave in response to Jaskier’s answer, the bard could only assume he had nothing to add.

“Oh,” Ciri mumbled, looking down in the saddle. “I guess so.”

The rest of the trail was carried on in awkward silence. Geralt was brooding as usual, Ciri was contemplating if addressing the elephant in the room was a wise choice, and Jaskier was merely thinking as he idly strummed a few chords on his lute. He had to admit that it felt nice to travel again and settle the wanderlust that consumed him. They went on like this for half the day until Geralt suddenly halted Roach, leading Ciri to make a quick stop.

Jaskier asked, “What’s the hold up?”

Then, before Geralt could state his sneaking suspicion that they were being followed, Jaskier heard the crack of someone stepping on a branch, and had just enough time to roll out of the way of a bandit's sword. This startled Cinnamon, who was not accustomed to battle the way Roach was. The poor mare dashed off further along the path, which thankfully put the princess out of harm’s way.

“Little birdie told us you’d be travelling to your Witcher’s keep a bit early this year, Butcher,” the bandit who attempted to strike Jaskier spoke first. Four more men in similar garb and swords accompanied him. “Though you might stray a bit too close to your old killing grounds. We couldn’t squander this opportunity, could we boys?”

The men chuckled menacingly, eyes focused on Geralt. Jaskier could run away with the excuse of attempting to find Ciri and ensure his safety. He had a distinct feeling that these bandits, presumably from Blaviken, were only out for revenge. The bard had no reason to stay, and yet he stood his ground and pulled out a dagger from his boot.

“A shame you didn’t bring more,” Jaskier taunted, a fiery gleam in his eye. “A Witcher could take on ten of you scrawny bastards. A Witcher and a bard against five of you? Leave now. Be sensible, gentlemen.”

Geralt dismounted swiftly, drawing his steel sword and standing in front of Jaskier. The bard could hear the pleading in his voice as he said, “I don’t want to cross swords with any of you. Go home.”

As the Witcher expected, the bandits did not take his advice. Instead, all five advanced on Geralt, with Jaskier just barely peeking out behind him. Unable to just stand there and realizing that a dagger would not serve as a sufficient weapon, Jaskier pulled the silver sword from the Witcher’s back and wielded it. Geralt growled something in return, but the sound was too low for his human ears to register.

Jaskier diverted the attention of two of the bandits and tried to remain on the offensive. Once upon a time, he was trained to be a nobleman, and that did include lessons in swordsmanship. Surely he was rusty, but his skill was enough to disarm a bandit and cast the silver blade through man’s stomach. He tried to ignore the sound of the man choking on and gurgling his own blood. The second bandit flew into a rage and charged Jaskier, the sword nicking his shoulder.

The bard hissed in pain, withdrawing the sword and falling briefly into defensive tactics. He parried many of the blows before attempting to strike back and missing. Admittedly, Jaskier was not as young as he used to be and was becoming worn down. He whined at the pain, but blocked the next blow with ease. Jaskier glanced over at Geralt and found that he was left with a single bandit with two bodies laying at his feet.

At Jaskier’s brief shift in attention, the bandit took advantage of the opportunity and slashed the sword across the bard's chest. Jaskier screamed in pain, but remained on his feet. Out of all the ways he had imagined he would die, at the hands of a bandit was not at the top of the list. With a surge of determination and adrenaline, he thrust the sword into the bandit’s chest.

Geralt, after having finished off his final bandit, whipped his head around to see Jaskier wobbling on his feet. The Witcher felt as though his body was not his own as his sword clattered to the ground as it slipped from his fingers. His body surged forward to catch Jaskier before he hit the ground, immediately surveying the depth and severity of the wound. Geralt’s usually slow and steady heart was now beating a mile a minute in his chest.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” he hissed out, perhaps harsher than strictly necessary. 

“Wouldn’t… dream of it,” Jaskier snapped back weakly, looking down at his chest. “It’s not that deep. I just wasn’t braced for it. Help me up, damn it.”

Geralt chuckled at the flippant way Jaskier took the blow, ignoring the tightness in his chest as he helped Jaskier stand. In the distance, he watched Ciri fighting to get Cinnamon to return to them. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, watching the girl maneuver the frightened animal. Everyone was safe, for once. At least, they were safe relative to the situation they were just in. Nilfgaard was still after them, afterall.

Ciri, clearly panicking, called, “Jaskier!”

“I’m fine, darling,” he purred, but his voice sounded strained. “They got a scratch on me. Takes more than a bandit to put me down.”

“We better make sure that doesn’t get infected anyway,” Geralt muttered, and then stooped down to help Jaskier mount Roach. Jaskier tried to give a word of protest, but the Witcher only answered, “Your steed is too skittish. She’ll jostle you. Just get on Roach.”

Roach herself seemed to get a bit confused, turning her head back to watch Geralt carefully. Jaskier didn’t ride her. Jaskier walked beside them, whether it was stormy weather, up a hill, or both. Geralt kept his horse just out of the bard’s reach, unless it was to give the mare a sugar cube. Still, once Jaskier mounted, she didn’t complain. If anything, she headbutted Geralt’s shoulder as if to chastise him for not making that choice sooner.

Geralt mounted Cinnamon behind his Child Surprise and gently guided her onward. He kept looking back at Jaskier to find him leaning too far forward in the saddle, a wince etched on to his face with every step Roach took. After five minutes of this, Jaskier spat, “I’d love to see you ride with a gaping wound in your chest. Oh, wait… I have. You don’t look too pretty either.”

You always look pretty, Geralt thought plainly, and then blanched out of pure shock. Where had that thought come from, unbidden? He shook the thought from his mind, hands gripping the reins tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Now was most definitely not the time or the place to be having a crisis. Granted, in Geralt’s mind, a personal crisis was never warranted.

The trio stopped to make camp an hour later. They were still too close to Blaviken for Geralt’s liking, but he could see the weakness in Jaskier’s face. He was barely maintaining his seat in the saddle, and Roach was moving at her slowest. The Witcher knew that even if Jaskier wouldn’t admit it, he wouldn’t survive a full trip. Gently making sure Ciri was settled, he asked her to give him some time to clean Jaskier’s wounds. She quickly agreed and left the Witcher to his work.

He laid Jaskier on his own bedroll and quickly unpacked his supplies, keeping an eye on Jaskier’s heavy breathing. He tore open the already ruined doublet and looked up when he heard the bard hissing between clenched teeth. The Witcher gave a sad hum, something he hoped Jaskier knew to interpret as an apology, but continued his work.

“They called this place your killing ground,” Jaskier spoke up, his voice more sympathetic than it had been their entire journey. “Blaviken?”

Geralt sighed, but nodded in return. He didn’t like thinking about this place, or the poor choices he’d made as a young Witcher. He didn’t want to think about how his actions had given Witchers a worse name than they’d had before, which was an incredible feat. Geralt’s heart ached as he remembered Marilka’s disappointed, horrified stare. He remembered her asking him to leave and never return. That hurt more than any of the rocks they threw at him. Geralt wondered if she still lived in Blaviken and if she still hated him after all these years.

“Glad we could fuck them up, then,” Jaskier said weakly, wincing as Geralt cleaned the wound. “But they could’ve done you a favor.”

Geralt frowned, pausing in his actions for the first time. He stared uncomprehendingly at the man before him. Quietly, he admitted, “I’m not sure I understand. Those men wouldn’t have done The Butcher any favors.”

“Don’t call yourself that. You’re better than that,” Jaskier chastised in a near whisper. They may not be on the same page in their friendship, but the bard wasn’t so petty as to call the man a monster. Then, he explained, “They could have given you life’s greatest blessing. I’d be off your hands if you’d gone after Cirilla.”

That statement stabbed at his heart with more precision than the best sword fighter ever could. Of course Jaskier would bring up the mountain in a moment like this, where he could not avoid what he’d said. There was nothing he could say to push this off. He had hoped he’d have the time to formulate a proper apology at Kaer Morhen, but he supposed he could start here.

“Jaskier…” And all the words died on his tongue. Fuck, he wasn’t good at this. “Jaskier, you can’t think that I mean that still. I was angry at… Well, I was angry at myself. Alright?”

“You didn’t come for me once,” the bard seethed. “You knew I was at Oxenfurt — yes, people told me you sent letters — and didn’t ask me to travel with you. You got what you wanted until your Child Surprise forced you to come for me!”

“I was trying to give you space,” he admitted, his voice quivering ever so slightly. Jaskier’s human ears wouldn’t pick up on it, but Geralt certainly did. “It was why I sent letters instead of imposing myself on you. I waited at our meeting spot each year just in case you changed your mind. Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

“Oh? Oh you’re sorry! That’s… Geralt, for fuck’s sake,” Jaskier began to laugh until the wound burned as if someone lit a match and placed it on his chest. He cried out then, and settled. “We are far past apologies, old friend. You had your chance for those when I climbed down that mountain alone. You had your chance when you sent those stupid fucking letters. Saying, ‘Oh Jaskier, I’m so sorry for saying those awful things, let’s be best friends’ does not make me feel any better, especially since you’ve never once regarded me as your friend.”

Geralt lowered his gaze, shame flooding his face and tinting his cheeks. Quietly, he whispered, “What can I do, then? Tell me how.”

“For starters? Finish what you started here.”

Now that was something Geralt could do. Salve and bandages didn’t require confessions or words, it only needed his steady hand. He did this all in the awkward silence between them. He faintly heard Ciri in the distance humming to herself, so he didn’t worry himself there. Instead, he focused on carefully wrapping the wound. Once he was done, he gave Jaskier a pleading look, as if to ask what to do or where to go. If the bard was surprised by the vulnerability, he didn’t let it show.

“Thank you,” he murmured, tracing a hand over the outline of the bandage. “Geralt… I need time. Time to think, time to reconsider everything. I need to know that I can trust you, and you won’t just use me as target practice for your sharp-witted barbs. I’m only human. Us humans can only take so much loss and heartbreak before we shatter.”

“Heartbreak? I thought you were furious, not heartbroken.”

Jaskier genuinely laughed at that, looking up to the Witcher’s golden gaze. “I can feel more than one thing at once, Geralt. I mean, one moment I’m asking you to run away with me to the coast, and the next you’re telling me I’m the bane of your existence. I can be hurt and angry all at once.”

The Witcher chuckled in return while mentally chastising himself for his own stupidity. Quietly, he answered, “You make your proposition sound like a romantic one when you describe it, Jask. Funny how it sounds outside the moment.”

Jaskier didn’t seem to find this amusing. If anything, he looked as though Geralt had knocked the wind out of him with a punch to the gut, like he had in Posada. He painstakingly rose to his feet, now wearing only his trousers as his shirt wasn’t salvageable. The bard glared at Geralt who was still kneeling. His cornflower blue eyes turned to ice, and his hands clenched into fists.

As he stormed off to get as far as he could from the clueless Witcher, he muttered through clenched teeth, “Oh, it’s hilarious.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks so much for reading. As always, I take kudos, comments, and constructive criticism. Also, come check me out on my tumblr here! We can chat or you can submit requests! As always, have a lovely day!
> 
> Edit: I forgot to mention: The lullaby Jaskier sings is a welsh lullaby titled "Ar Hyd Y Nos" or "All Through the Night." I figured Welsh was a solid substitute for Elder Speech (maybe?).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I apologize for taking so long to update this fic, but this chapter is a little longer than the others to make up for it!

Now Jaskier was brooding in a corner, shirtless and shivering in the biting wind, for reasons unbeknownst to Geralt. He didn’t dare approach at this point out of worry for what the repercussions might be. Tidying his healing supplies and packing them away, the Witcher found himself wondering what he had said that was so wrong. It had seemed like the tension between them had eased for a moment as they fell into their old patterns of playful bickering. Then, almost immediately, the tension returned and left Jaskier fuming. A voice in the back of his mind that sounded an awful lot like Vesemir reminded him that this was why a Witcher was meant to travel the Path alone.

These days, he wondered if that motto was meant to protect himself or those who dared travel at his side.

Rummaging through Roach’s saddlebags for a spare shirt for Jaskier, young Ciri approached looking rather annoyed. Geralt ignored her for a time, not in any mood to listen to her childish rantings as he finally retrieved a plain shirt from his belongings. He felt nothing but fondness for the girl who had lost her entire family, but his patience wore thin eventually. It wasn’t until it felt that her eyes would burn a hole in the side of his head that he turned to her.

“Yes, Ciri?”

She hissed in return, “What did you do to him?! You two were laughing one moment and the next Jaskier looks ready to slit your throat.”

Geralt sighed before chastising, “And that is none of your business, Cub.”

“You’re a bunch of miserable old bastards, did you know that?”

“Language,” Geralt corrected, but there was no fire behind it. “And I’m sorry the journey hasn’t been entertaining for you, Ciri, but that’s not my job. I need to get to Kaer Morhen safely. That is my priority. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The girl frowned, but took the words in stride before announcing loudly that she would be collecting firewood at the edge of the clearing. Geralt rolled his eyes at her dramatics, but kept a careful eye on how far she went. He noticed Jaskier doing the same as the stubborn bard hugged himself tight for warmth. This was getting ridiculous. Dipping into Roach’s saddlebags once again, Geralt found his own bedroll and approached Jaskier.

“F-Fuck off… Geralt,” Jaskier growled, teeth chattering as he saw the Witcher’s gifts. “I don’t need your help.”

“Jaskier, I swear to Melitele above that if you decide to freeze out of stubbornness, Ciri might strangle me,” Geralt grumbled. “You won’t owe me as much as a thank you. Just take it. Please.”

The bard huffed, but took the shirt and bedroll as he explained, “Fine. I would hate to give Ciri another reason to be upset.”

Jaskier quickly donned the shirt over his bandages and set the bedroll beside him. Almost immediately, he appeared to be placated. Then, reluctantly, he said, “Thank you. I appreciate it. And thank you for the healing. I’m feeling worlds better than I was before.”

Geralt decided to sit across from him, placing a comfortable distance between them in case Jaskier was still internally stewing about the conversation they had. As he started removing his armor, he murmured, “I’m glad to hear it. I must also admit that I’m impressed. A Witcher’s sword is heavy for a human, and you wielded it… Well, not expertly, but certainly well.”

Jaskier snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yes, well… I learned from watching the best. I apologize for stealing the sword off your back, though. I can’t imagine that’s a comfortable situation for you.”

“I’m certainly not used to it,” he admitted. “But I’d rather you do that then die at the hands of bandits, of all things.”

Jaskier grinned, memories of past adventures clearly coming to mind at the comment. Once again, Geralt felt the tension begin to subside and, for the moment, he could pretend that the dreaded incident on the mountain had never happened. It was all just a bad dream, and they were no longer miles apart. Jaskier was never angry, and this was just another period of downtime between contracts.

“Imagine dying at the hands of bandits after surviving a djinn’s wrath,” the bard teased. “Though I suppose I have you to thank for saving me then as well.”

The Witcher hummed as he loosened yet another buckle on his armor. Then, he corrected, “Technically, you have Yen to thank as well.”

The ease at which the conversation had flowed came to a screeching halt. The illusion of happiness faded quickly. Mood now soured, Jaskier’s face didn’t twist into a scowl like he expected it to. Instead, there was merely a stoney, incomprehensible expression on his face. When he spoke again, Jaskier’s words sounded like they were laced in heartache.

“Ah, yes,” he muttered, lips pursed. “Good ol’ Yen.”

Just as Geralt was about to ask what exactly that meant, Ciri returned with an armful of firewood. She let the sticks and brush fall at their feet, her cheeks pink at the exertion. With a huff, she plopped in the grass beside Jaskier.

“Can you make the fire, Geralt,” she pleaded, reminding Geralt of her cushy, royal upbringing. “Please? I’m freezing.”

Geralt grunted, finishing the removal of his armor before setting it aside neatly. Simple tasks were easy to handle. Dealing with the complex, enigmatic bard before him? Trying to understand what combination of actions and words would convince Jaskier he was sorry? He’d rather make himself bruxa bait than face that right now. As he set up the fire, he could hear Ciri and Jaskier chatting behind him.

“Are you okay? Be honest,” Ciri murmured. 

“I’m perfectly fine, Ciri,” he answered. “Geralt was kind enough to patch me up. I’ll be ready to travel tomorrow, dear. And you? I hope Cinnamon didn’t spook you too much. I should have figured she would give us trouble at the first signs of danger. She’s not trained like Roach.”

Ciri giggled, a sound that at least assured Geralt that the girl wasn’t completely miserable. “Oh, she was fine. She’s a very sweet horse and, thankfully, didn’t try to throw me. It just took a bit of coaxing for her to come back.”

“Good,” Jaskier said. “I don’t know what I’d do if something were to happen to you.”

Geralt could feel the warmth in his words, even though the words were not directed at himself. Of course he would never admit it aloud, but he missed when Jaskier’s kind words were thrown in his direction, be it via song or just everyday conversation. He let the voices of his travelling companions fall into the background as he cast Igni on the wood, watching it catch flame instantly. Ciri was the first to come running over, sitting herself close, almost too close, to the leaping flames. He knew the princess wasn’t completely foolish, so he didn’t comment. Instead, the Witcher walked over to where Jaskier sat and held out a hand.

“You should be closer to the fire,” Geralt mumbled gruffly.

“Why thank you,” Jaskier said cheekily as he took the outstretched hand. It was clear that the bard was trying to clear up the awkwardness between them. Still, even with his charm and charisma, it was a difficult task. His words were stilted and awkward, but he still teased, “By the way, I thought you weren’t supposed to use signs for practical things? Vesemir’s rules and whatnot.”

Geralt snorted, picking up the abandoned bedroll as he pulled the bard close to his side to help him walk. “Well, I don’t see Vesemir here. I suppose this is one thing he won’t know about the trip.”

Jaskier laughed, and this time it was genuine. Geralt looked down at the bard long enough to see a glimmer of true happiness in his eyes. His cheeks flushed, presumably from the cold, the Witcher found himself admiring his old friend. Jaskier was a sight to behold, even after all these years. By the time he’d come to this realization, the bard looked embarrassed.

“Geralt, you can put me down now.”

The Witcher’s golden eyes widened as he abruptly, but still carefully, set his companion down. He also laid out the bedroll beside him, muttering something that sounded like an apology. As Geralt knelt at the fire far away from the bard, Ciri gave him a knowing look. This only made him scowl, since he couldn’t decipher what exactly she knew. Did she see Geralt staring? Had he been obvious? 

The forest grew quiet as darkness fell, and Geralt tried to quiet his own mind for meditation. However, when his thoughts kept filling with Jaskier’s perfect smile, he gave up on any attempt to rest and took to sharpening his swords. He watched as Ciri dozed off in front of the fire while Jaskier’s eyes followed Geralt’s steady hand. The Witcher wouldn’t say that he felt uncomfortable, this was Jaskier after all, but he felt uneasy being stared at. Usually he could ignore the stares he got when he travelled through towns. They came from ignorant people who knew nothing of him or his kind.

But Jaskier? Well, he couldn’t tell what the bard was thinking when he watched him. That realization caused a pang of regret to flare in his chest. He used to be easy to read, back when Jaskier spoke his mind openly. Now the years seemed to create a chasm between them, and Geralt didn’t know if he could cross it. The Witcher didn’t even know if Jaskier wanted him to try.

The night passed slowly once Jaskier fell asleep. Surprisingly, Ciri didn’t experience another magical outburst. She didn’t even so much as move in her sleep. It was a delight to have the child sleep through the night without tossing and turning. Jaskier also seemed to sleep soundly, which was no surprise. The bard had learned to sleep pretty much anywhere while travelling with Geralt.

When the dawn came, Geralt made quick work cleaning up the camp. He was tired to say the least, but a sleepless night was nothing new to him. After himself, Jaskier was the next to rise, stretching before remembering the wound on his chest and groaning. Geralt glanced over pointedly, silently asking if he’d be well enough to travel.

“Good morning to you too,” Jaskier grumbled, sitting up slowly. “I should be fine riding Cinnamon today. We’re close to Kaer Morhen, right?”

Geralt huffed, but nodded. “A day’s ride, and you’ll be riding Roach with Ciri. Cinnamon is too unpredictable.”

Jaskier frowned. “Geralt, she’s my horse and—”

“And if she spooks, she’ll throw you and injure you further,” the Witcher reasoned. “I’ve worked with mares like her before. If she tries to throw me, odds are that I can stay on.”

A flash of recognition showed on Jaskier’s face. “Did you… Did you train Roach?”

Geralt chuckled at the fond memories. “Among others, but yes. Vesemir insisted they always calmed faster with me. I don’t know how much of that was true, but I liked the animals anyway. Always had. I didn’t have reason to complain.”

“That’s… Actually, that’s very sweet, Geralt,” Jaskier teased, a small smile playing on his lips. “Might just have to write a song about that one.”

The Witcher froze, hands stilling in his prep work. One of the many things that added to his difficulties travelling the Continent was the lack of ballads to soften the blow. Jaskier had stopped writing about him after the mountain, and it was obvious in the way people sneered at him more often. The idea of Jaskier even proposing writing about him again blossomed hope in his chest.

“I didn’t think you wrote much anymore,” Geralt voiced casually, trying to hide the spike of unadulterated joy he felt. “Nothing better to write about?”

Jaskier shrugs, his cheeks once again flushed red. Now, he also noticed that it was accompanied by the bard’s heart thudding quickly. Strange. “Depends on what Kaer Morhen has to offer.”

And then the bard winked before carefully collecting his lute and bedroll. Geralt felt his stomach do flips for reasons beyond his comprehension. Once again, he was reminded of the old days, when their relationship was easy and Geralt didn’t feel so conflicted all the time. Shaking it off, the Witcher walked towards Ciri to wake her up.

“Cirilla,” he whispered, shaking her shoulder lightly. “We need to get moving.”

The princess jolted awake, clearly scared and confused about where she was. She calmed significantly when her sharp, green stare met Geralt’s warm, yellow gaze. It took her a moment to process his words, but soon she nodded and wrapped her cloak around herself. Geralt gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze before collecting Ciri’s belongings into Roach’s saddlebags. Jaskier had already climbed on the horse’s back, almost reverently petting her mane. A smile tugged at his lips at the sight. The mare had always been ill-tempered to anyone that wasn’t himself, but Jaskier had managed to win her over with kind words and sugar cubes.

“Geralt,” Ciri called, pulling at the edge of Geralt’s armor. “You’re smiling. Since when do you do that? I’m shocked to see it’s something you’re capable of, and that’s not because you’re a Witcher. You’re just… angry. A lot.”

Despite himself, he huffs out a light laugh. For the moment, he lifts the child up in his arms. As much as he hated destiny, he couldn’t help but feel that it dealt in his favor this time. Ciri was unruly and wild, able to hold her own in a battle of wits despite her age. He couldn’t call it love yet, but there was a distinct affection he had for her.

“Well clearly I haven’t had a reason to lately,” he joked, walking her over to Roach. “You haven’t exactly been all smiles and giggles either, Cub. Now, get behind the bard, would you?”

He helped her up, making sure she was settled into the saddle. Jaskier made an offhand comment welcoming the child aboard, immediately striking conversation with the child. Geralt let them be and approached Cinnamon with a careful hand. The horse whinnied and bucked, probably terrified of anything that wasn’t a mild-mannered bard. Geralt hushed her, making sure she was ready for him to ride.

“Easy, girl,” he murmured. “You’re alright now. C’mon.”

The mare cooperated rather quickly, allowing the Witcher to settle into the saddle and spur her on. He led Cinnamon ahead, and gestured for Jaskier to follow him. Hopefully, if they had no more interruptions, they’d be at Kaer Morhen by nightfall. Carefully easing Cinnamon into a trot, he could hear Roach follow suit.

The ride itself was rather uneventful. No bandits, monsters, or Nilfgaardians attempted to kill them, so Geralt was appreciative of the somewhat quiet stretch of road ahead. Jaskier’s voice often flitted through his mind, mostly singing some of his older hits. Ciri was enthralled, if the sound of her enthused clapping was anything to go by. Geralt was immensely grateful that he could entertain the child, since conversation wasn’t his strongest skill on a good day. The poor child had to sit through numerous awkward rides through the mountains, with Ciri trying to engage in conversation with the stoic old man. Now, at least, she had someone who would not only protect her, but also be her friend.

It was nearing sunset when they arrived in Yspaden, the village that resided in the Kaer Morhen Valley. Rarely, if ever, did he get side-eyed there. The people let him do business before travelling up the mountain for the winter without any hassle. Rather than feeling threatened, the people often claimed to be protected. Monsters usually didn’t remain in the Kaer Morhen Valley for long, particularly since there was a band of Witchers more than willing to take care of things.

“Geralt!”

He knew that voice. Turning his head at the call, he saw Cathilda, the woman who ran the local apothecary, practically running up the path. She was an older woman, her auburn hair speckled with grey and patterns of wrinkles on her face. He usually came to her at the start of the season for alchemic supplies, and she was always pleased to see him. Now, however, she looked frantic. Dismounting from Cinnamon, he met her half way.

“Cathilda, what happened?”

“A specter has been haunting our fields for weeks,” she explained, her bony hands clutching to his armor as if her life depended on it. “My husband fell ill a few months ago, and we laid him to rest properly, as we knew we should. I don’t know how, but I think it’s him who has come back to haunt us! I don’t have much in the way of coin, but I can’t live there another night, Geralt. Please, will you help me?”

Geralt hums, looking back at Ciri and Jaskier who only watched him expectantly. He knew that he was the last one to be arriving at Kaer Morhen, since it was so late into the season. No other Witchers would be coming this way any time soon. With a heavy sigh, he answered, “I have to get these two up to Kaer Morhen first. They’ve been travelling long enough. I will return within the hour, though. A single wraith doesn’t require much payment.”

That was a lie. Wraiths are tricky bastards, flitting here and there in the blink of an eye. A well placed Yrden trap and a silver sword slicked with specter oil would do the trick, but that didn’t make wraiths any less dangerous. But Cathilda had been kind to him over the years, which was a rarity in his world.

“Oh Geralt,” she said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Thank you.”

“Do you have a place to stay for the night? Somewhere without a wraith, preferably.”

She nodded. “I’ve been staying with a friend since it started. Those wraiths are vicious things.”

Geralt hummed in agreement. “Indeed. I’ll be back soon, but tell everyone to stay away from those fields until then. I’ll take care of it.”

Cathilda smiled at him, reaching up one hand to place one hand on his cheek. “You’re a good man, Geralt of Rivia. Thank you.”

Geralt didn’t give a proper answer to that, but instead climbed back into Cinnamon’s saddle wordlessly. He urged the mare on, looking back to make sure Roach was following. Jaskier was giving him a sentimental look in return.

“That was very kind of you,” the bard called ahead. “I know you don’t usually work for little coin.”

Geralt shrugged, as if to say that there are exceptions to every rule. The silence spread between them at that point, and the climb up the mountain was an uneasy one. Cinnamon fought him every step of the way, unused to the difficult terrain. Stopping and starting, Geralt gently coaxed her up the mountainside. Before long, he caught sight of the old ruins as well as a man keeping watch. Judging by the silhouette, he guessed it was Eskel. 

As they got closer, the iron gates creaked open slowly. Behind them stood Vesemir himself, his stormy gaze making Geralt’s palms sweat. Very few things struck terror into his heart, and the thought of Vesemir angry is one of them. As this thought crossed his mind, he also came to realize that he never warned anyone that he was bringing Jaskier. None of them trusted humans very much, Vesemir least of all. With a sigh, he dismounted and approached his mentor.

“Vesemir,” he greeted politely, bowing his head. He allowed Vesemir to approach and pull him into a tight, fatherly hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, pup,” Vesemir answered gruffly. “Even if you did bring an unexpected guest. You’ll have to explain that one.”

“I know, but later,” Geralt whispered. “There’s a contract in the village before I can settle here. A wraith, of all things.”

“Very well,” the grizzled man answered quietly before turning to the newcomers. “Hello, little one. You must be Cirilla. And you, young man?”

“Jaskier,” the bard squeaked out, still mounted atop Roach. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. Geralt spoke of you often.”

Vesemir gave a small smile, though looked back to Geralt and asked under his breath, “You brought your bard to Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt didn’t answer that, and instead busied himself with helping Ciri dismount. Jaskier followed suit, wincing and grasping at the wound on his chest. It wasn’t too obvious, but it was enough for Geralt to worry about infection. He gives his mentor a look to see if he catches on, and can immediately tell that Vesemir knew to take a look.

“Tell Eskel and Lambert I’ll be back soon,” Geralt insisted to Vesemir.

Geralt then mounts Roach, noticing her give him a glance that made him well-aware that she was displeased that she had to make yet another trip down the mountain. He hushed her, patted her mane, and started to turn away from Kaer Morhen.

“Geralt,” he heard Jaskier call out. The Witcher stopped in his tracks and turned to face the anxious-looking bard. “Be careful, alright?”

The Witcher huffed, but nodded and promised that he would. Then, without another word, he urged Roach back down the mountain in search of Cathilda’s wraith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are welcome. If you want, check me out on my tumblr to chat, make requests, or anything else! Have a lovely day!


	4. Chapter 4

Of course Geralt left him alone with his Witcher family, without so much as an introduction to everyone. Jaskier had imagined this moment since his darling Witcher had mentioned his winters at Kaer Morhen. He fantasized about what it would be like when Geralt finally invited him to the only place he called home. It would be sweet. Romantic.

Perhaps it was because he was a bard that he was also a helpless romantic, or vice versa.

“This place is absolutely beautiful,” Jaskier confessed once Geralt left. “To be here in its prime must have been a vision, sir.”

Vesemir only grunted in response. Of course, now he could see where his ex-muse got his less than talkative nature. He hoped and prayed that the other Witchers had something more to offer in terms of conversation, or else he’d only be speaking to Ciri during his stay. Though, he supposed it wouldn’t be so horrible to have the child as his only company.

“The stables are around back,” Vesemir muttered, starting to walk off in that direction. “You can follow me.”

Jaskier nodded, silently following. He looked to the girl beside him and saw apprehension that matched his own. Nudging her shoulder, he held out a comforting hand to hold. With a shy smile, he saw her hand peek out from behind her cloak and hold his. At least they were braving the new surroundings together.

As this thought crossed his mind, a man came running out with a wide grin on his face. He wore the same wolf medallion that Vesemir and Geralt wore, so he knew the man was a Witcher, but that was where the similarities stopped. This man had amber eyes and short brown hair, a far cry from the White Wolf he sang about so often.

“Where’s Geralt? I saw him come up,” the man grouched, his smile quickly fading as he looked to the pair. “Who are they? Vesemir, what the fuck?”

“Watch your tongue in front of the child, Lambert,” the elder Witcher snapped. “Geralt will be back soon, he just had a wraith to take care of. The man is Jaskier, and the girl is Cirilla, the Child Surprise.”

“Just Ciri will do,” the child piped up as she stepped forward and held out a hand to shake. “You must be one of Geralt’s brothers.”

“I don’t do the whole kid thing,” the man, Lambert, grumbled, throwing up his hands in mock surrender.

“Prick,” Jaskier mumbled, momentarily forgetting that these men were like Geralt and could hear every word he muttered under his breath.

“I’m sorry, what was that, bard?”

Jaskier took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He was yet again going to get punched in the stomach by a Witcher, and this one could possibly hurt more. Oh, well. Jaskier wasn’t exactly known for keeping his mouth shut. The man already knew what he said, and he wasn’t going to allow this man to hold it over his head.

“I said,” Jaskier growled, his chin tipped up to look Lambert in the eye. “You’re a fucking prick. Ciri’s been through a lot, and the least you could do is give the girl a handshake!”

For a moment they stood there in silence, while the anger rolled off the bard in waves. Even if this did end in him getting sucker punched, he had no regrets this time. He didn’t bother to wince or brace for impact. He simply glared at the Witcher’s infuriated snarl. This man wanted a pissing match? He’d get one.

And then suddenly Lambert was laughing boisterously and clapping him on the back. Jaskier, wholly confused, started to chuckle nervously along with him as the man teased, “Oh, I like this one. No wonder Geralt keeps you around.”

Jaskier raised a brow, even more confused. He glanced at Vesemir, who wore a ghost of a smile on his face. Was he being tested? This definitely felt like a test he had passed, but for what he couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t until a moment later that another approaching man, with scars obscuring half his face, tried to fill him in.

“Please ignore him, he’s an asshole,” the other man called, chuckling to himself. “That’s Lambert, and I’m Eskel. If Geralt’s stories serve me well enough, you are Jaskier.”

Jaskier was silent for a moment. Geralt talked about him in detail? When? How long ago? Eyes wide, he admitted, “I didn’t think he spoke of me. Yes, I’m Jaskier. A pleasure, Eskel.”

Lambert muttered something too low for him to hear, which earned a swift elbow from Eskel. This made Ciri giggle, clearly finding their brotherly antics amusing. The less prickly of the two kneeled before her with a kind smile. “And you are Geralt’s darling Ciri. Happy to have you here.”

“Would you mind escorting our guests to the stables? I need to speak with Lambert,” Vesemir grouched, giving Lambert a look that surely meant he was in for some trouble. Eskel stood and nodded, wordlessly gesturing for Jaskier to follow him.

“You’ll hear a bit of yelling in a few moments, but that’s just how those two miserable bastards communicate,” Eskel teased. “Lambert will be less infuriating in the days to come, but we’ll just have to wait until then. As for my other brother… Did Geralt go back into town?”

Jaskier nodded. “A wraith was haunting this woman’s house. He insisted on killing it for her.”

“That sounds like Geralt.”

Jaskier chuckled, unable to disagree with the sentiment. He remembered when the Witcher would put up a fight when he wrote his ballads, saying they were inaccurate or embellished. While that was true, the heart of the stories were never altered. The bard might over emphasize the heroics of Geralt’s exploits, but that didn’t make the man any less of a hero.

“Stables are just to your left,” Eskel instructed, pointing over to a rather large shelter. “Where’d you find this beauty, anyway?”

“Cinnamon is technically the property of Oxenfurt,” he mumbled, and he shivered as he recalled the Nilfgaardian forces attacking the place he’d called home for the past few years. “She was my horse, though. Property of Professor Pankratz.”

Eskel hummed, watching the bard with piqued curiosity. “So you teach in the winter months when you aren’t with Geralt?”

“We haven’t traveled together in years,” Jaskier explained. “It’s a very long story, but essentially Geralt asked that we part ways.”

Jaskier began to remove Cinnamon’s tack, offering the mare a sugar cube first. She cooperated for the most part as the bard’s deft fingers unbuckled the saddle. Ciri, with childlike amusement, started petting the horse.

“Now that does not sound like Geralt,” Eskel said, utterly perplexed. “But it would explain why he’s been miserable every time he comes to winter with us. He just never mentioned that you parted.”

Jaskier laughed, giving Cinnamon a parting pat before turning to Eskel. “That sounds exactly like the Geralt I’ve come to know.”

Of course Geralt hadn’t had the courage to admit that they had parted. Then the bastard would have to admit that it was his own fault that his bard left him. He’d have to be held accountable for what he did and what he said. Jaskier knew Geralt well, and so he knew that not even the White Wolf was brave enough to confess all that.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel murmured. “Lambert isn’t the only one that can be pig-headed around here.”

Jaskier shrugged, hiding how empty he felt. He had yet to hear a heartfelt apology from the man for basically calling him life’s greatest curse. Thinking about the mountain, walking down it alone and sobbing into his lute, caused simultaneous bursts of anger and sorrow in his chest. And yet watching Geralt go off to fight the wraith earlier made him feel anxious. He still cared for this bastard who thought so little of him. How unfair was that?

“How about I show you two to some available rooms? Hopefully by then Geralt will have returned,” the kindly Witcher offered. “We’ll get you two settled in for the winter.”

“That would be lovely,” Ciri answered for the both of them.

And so Eskel gave a brief tour of the fortress, providing some of the less painful history of this place. Jaskier, ever the bard, started jotting down the information for a future ballad. If there were any benefits to being in this place, he would not be lacking in inspiration. At Oxenfurt, there was nothing new and exciting to write about. He taught the same lessons to the same students. He loved his job, and cherished Oxenfurt with his whole heart, but his wanderlust couldn’t be cured by staying still.

“And the rooms are in this hallway,” Eskel finished, bringing them into a long hallway. “I’m the first door on the right, Lambert is the third on the left, and Geralt is the fourth on the right. All the others are available.”

“What about Vesemir?”

“Oh, he lives further into the keep,” the Witcher answered, chuckling to himself. “Says we’re too damn loud. And by we, he means Lambert.”

Jaskier hummed, nodding to himself. He looked down at Ciri holding his hand, who seemed to be lost in thought. Quietly, he murmured, “Thank you, Eskel. I appreciate it. You’ve been a lovely host.”

Eskel looked mildly embarrassed by the compliment, turning away and rubbing the back of his neck. Gruffly, he replied, “I’ll be around. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Eskel walked off, leaving Jaskier and Ciri alone to pick their rooms. The bard nudged the little girl, trying to pull her from her thoughts. Softly, he proposed, “You can have the first pick, if you’d like. Lots of options, sweetheart.”

“Right, sorry. It’s just… Do you think Geralt’s alright? He’s been gone for hours,” she pointed out, squeezing his hand.

The question gave Jaskier pause. He had spent many nights waiting in forests or inns for Geralt to return. Most days, he returned on his own, hurt but alive. On the other, rare occasions, Jaskier would steal a horse and come galloping in, administering potions and healing salves as needed. He would be scolded for rushing into danger without a thought for himself, but the bard got used to it after a while. Geralt never explicitly thanked him, of course, but Jaskier always felt the sentiment in the Witcher’s gentle hand on his shoulder and eye contact that lasted just moments too long.

“He’s alright,” Jaskier assured, feeling in his gut that it was true. “I’ve known him a very long time. I’m not worried yet.”

The girl seemed to relax at that, resting her dainty head on Jaskier’s arm. “I think I’d like a room beside Geralt’s, just in case.”

In case of what, exactly, she didn’t make clear. Still, he understood that she was in a fortress full of strangers. Hell, she barely knew Geralt outside of the fact that he was her destiny. Jaskier, at least, was commonly seen in Cintra. He often dedicated his songs to the Lion Cub of Cintra while in the court. Though he’d never admit it, half the reason he accepted the gigs was to ensure the safety of Geralt’s Child Surprise without Calanthe knowing.

He led her to the third room on the right and opened the door. The room was surprisingly well kept, but he could tell it was ancient. The bedding was weathered and worn, but clean. A bookshelf of classics rested on the shelf with a thin layer of dust on them. There was a small rocking chair in the corner with scratches and chips in its white paint. The fireplace, while clearly unused, was spotless with a neat pile of firewood to accompany it. He knew it was plain, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of this cozy little room.

“I’m just glad it has a bed,” Ciri sighed, throwing her cloak to the ground as she climbed into bed. “Being on the run is exhausting.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh at her blunt humor, carefully collecting her cloak from the floor and placing it in the chair. He pulled out the lute still strapped to his back and began to strum. As he sat beside the bed and watched the tired child, he asked, “Would you like something to soothe you to sleep?”

The girl nodded, so he began to sing the lullaby from the night before. The Elder flew fluently from his lips. He’d studied the language many years ago, when he was first a student at Oxenfurt. Being able to read and tell the stories of old had always been important to him, so that was where he focused his attention. He was pleased to have the skill now, watching the child drift off to sleep. When Jaskier could tell Ciri was fully asleep, he slowly allowed the song to fade into silence before he tucked the girl under the covers.

He tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door open a crack to allow the faint torchlight to seep through. Jaskier didn’t pick a room for himself yet, instead choosing to wander the keep by himself. His mind was instead focused on how long Geralt had been gone. Looking at the pitch black sky, he knew it had to have been several hours after sunset. A single wraith, as much as he knew about them from Geralt’s limited story telling, was a tricky and fearsome thing. Perhaps the White Wolf was simply having some trouble.

As the thought crossed his mind, he heard the echo of discussion down the hall. It wasn’t very clear chatter, but Jaskier knew he heard the deep rumble of Geralt’s voice. The sound calmed him instantly, and the bard hated it. He hated how he wanted to run towards that voice, wrap Geralt in his arms, and offer to tend to his wounds. The bastard deserved none of it. He didn’t deserve Jaskier’s consistent kindness after treating him with less respect than the dirt under his boots.

Still, he found his feet carrying him towards Geralt.

When Jaskier found him, he was accompanied by his brothers and Vesemir. It was a heartwarming reunion, and Jaskier immediately turned to leave them. He felt like an outsider, watching this family unite. He had no place here among Witchers, especially when one of them wished so desperately that he would leave forever. It wasn’t his place to interrupt. 

“Jask,” a gravelly tone called after him. The bard was shocked enough to stop in his tracks, but not turn around. “Jaskier! I… Where’s Ciri?”

“Asleep,” he answered curtly, turning to make eye contact with those eyes that glowed like sunshine.

Fuck. Why did Geralt of Rivia, one of the biggest assholes he’d ever come to know, have to be so poetically beautiful?

The Witcher hummed, blatantly giving the bard a once over. “And your wound? Having any trouble?”

Jaskier shook his head, trying not to think about the tender way Geralt had cared for his gash in the forest. “Perfectly fine. And what of the wraith?”

“Destroyed,” he stated bluntly, almost as if he was bored. Hell, maybe he was. Small talk had never been Jaskier’s strength, but talking to Geralt now felt nearly daunting. He was half expecting the man to completely shut him out again. Living in this emotional limbo was downright exhausting.

“Such a way with words,” Jaskier teased, but the words didn’t hold the mirth they used to. “Anyway, I’m glad for it. Cathilda can have some peace of mind now.”

Geralt hummed, and suddenly Jaskier was out of words to say. He knew well that the other Witchers would be able to see how tense they were, but that would be up to Geralt to explain that. It was his fault, anyway.

“I should leave you to your family,” Jaskier murmured. “I’m sure you have some catching up to do.”

The bard turned to leave, but felt a heavy hand rest on his shoulder. His heart began to beat faster than it should at the contact. He froze, looking over his shoulder at the Witcher’s gloved hand. Jaskier heard the mumbles of Lambert and Eskel, but his human ears couldn’t even begin to make it out. Face flushed, he asked, “Yes, Geralt?”

“I…”

There was a long moment of silence between them, Jaskier still turned with his back to Geralt. He could practically feel the words on the tip of the Witcher’s tongue, and Jaskier wanted desperately to draw them out. An apology? A confession? Another banishment? At this point, the bard was desperate for anything that was sidelong glances or solemn grunts.

“I was hoping you could help me mend some of my wounds,” Geralt spouted, looking more uncomfortable than Jaskier had ever seen him.

“Oh, of course,” he answered with false cheerfulness, hiding his disappointment and anguish. Geralt, the absolute bastard, didn’t deserve to see it. “Lead the way, oh darling White Wolf. You can tell me of your valiant quest while I work.”

Geralt grunted, swiftly moving down the hall and away from the rest of his family. Jaskier glanced back to see Eskel and Vesemir exchanging amused glances while Lambert merely looked annoyed. He wondered for a moment if they were making a joke at his expense when he was at the disadvantage of being unable to hear them. A second later, he pushed the thought aside. Eskel, at the very least, seemed kinder than to do that.

“What’s all the mumbling about? Are we making jokes at the human’s expense?”

He said it to fill the silence, but didn’t expect Geralt to let out a hearty laugh. That kind of laughter was just as rare as it was beautiful. It was deep and gravelly, and the bard knew in moments like these it was heartfelt. Gods above, he hadn’t heard that laugh in years.

Fuck it all, that wasn’t the point.

“Not quite,” Geralt admitted, still chuckling. “They’re actually poking fun at me. Brothers will do as brothers do, I suppose. With Eskel it’s endearing, but Lambert does it to be an asshole.”

“Can’t say I relate,” Jaskier answered, a smile tugging at his lips. “I only have sisters. I will say, however, that Lambert does sound like an asshole. He threw a fit earlier for the hell of it, which is honestly petty if you ask me.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, a sigh spilling from his lips. The laughter had faded, but the merriment remained. His lupine eyes glittered in the faint streams of moonlight that poured through the windows and Jaskier realized with utmost certainty that Geralt had let his guard down. That made sense, since the Witcher was home, but it didn’t stop the thrill that ran through Jaskier at the thought.

“Sounds like a Lambert-like thing to do. Probably wanted to test if you had a prejudice against mutants.”

Oh, well wasn’t that just rich? Here he was waxing poetic in his mind about Geralt of Rivia and meanwhile the Witchers questioned his loyalties. If only they knew how much he thought about the man. If only they knew that Jaskier offered to run away to the coast with the man all those years ago in a desperate attempt to keep the Witcher at his side.

“Yes, because travelling with you for most of my adult life wasn’t enough,” Jaskier flippantly said instead. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt.”

Geralt huffed out a laugh, but didn’t answer as he opened the door that he assumed led to the Witcher’s room. Jaskier raised a brow as he saw the room didn’t look like Ciri’s room. In fact, it wasn’t a room at all, but another hallway that led to a spiral staircase. He let Geralt take the lead, listening to the echo of their boots on the stone steps.

When they came to the top of the tower-like structure, Jaskier was surprised to see how spacious the room was. Geralt wasn’t one for luxuries. Hell, it took the bard almost a year to convince him that cooking the meat he hunted wasn’t an unnecessary splurge. Yet, here Jaskier was, staring at this enormous room with one of the largest beds he’d ever seen in his life. The bard eyed the Witcher with a mischievous gaze.

“So you do like more than simple pleasures,” Jaskier teased. “And you’d never admit it, you sneaky bastard.”

Geralt hummed, neither confirming nor denying the truth in that statement. He took to setting his swords on a rack and removing his armor. Jaskier, rather than simply staring at the man while he undressed, sat on the bed. The plush mattress felt like a cloud compared to a forest floor or bedroll, and the bard hummed contentedly.

“So, what’s with the fancy room?”

The Witcher paused, seemingly taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Jaskier knew the right words didn’t always come easily to his companion, but that was fine. He was used to stilted words and uncomfortable pauses, or so he told himself. In fact, he felt lucky. Holding a full conversation so easily with Geralt was a miracle in and of itself.

“The quiet,” he confessed finally, turning to look at Jaskier with his armor half off. “I deal with sound on the path because I have to, but I can take a winter to… readjust.”

“So all of you have fancy corridors with staircases?”

“No,” Geralt corrected, but not unkindly. “The mutations, the Trial of Grasses… I was given more mutagens than the others. My senses were affected more severely than the others. Have I never told you this?”

Jaskier shrugged. “You don’t like telling me about your past, for some reason.”

“This doesn’t get made into one of your ballads,” the White Wolf warned, but there was no heat behind his words. He knew, or at least Jaskier liked to think he knew, that the bard cared about his privacy. “The world doesn’t need to know.”

But Jaskier himself was allowed to know, which made warmth blossom in his chest. There was an unspoken trust that Geralt afforded him, which he made clear in subtle ways. During times Jaskier was allowed to remove his armor, or carefully bathe him, or braid his long white locks, the bard knew that was trust. The White Wolf was vulnerable to a select few. Even as Jaskier tried to remain good and pissed at the man who broke his heart, he couldn’t help the pride that swelled within him at the fact that Geralt could be himself around him.

“As you wish, Geralt. You have my word.”

The man hummed as he sat on the bed beside Jaskier, removing his boots and the rest of his armor before he mumbled, “Let me remove this, and we’ll go someplace more comfortable. This isn’t a conversation to have with you while my attention is diverted.”

Jaskier frowned as he watched the man undress. “Whatever you need, but what of the wounds you asked me to tend to? That seems to me like a much more pressing manner.”

Geralt froze, eyes wide. If Jaskier had to hazard a guess, he looked embarrassed. “That was a lie. I needed an excuse to get you to stay. You might hate me, but you aren’t as cruel as to deny a man in need. I’m sorry for the deception, Jaskier.”

“Huh,” Jaskier muttered after a moment of introspection. He should be angry that Geralt took advantage of his kind nature. Part of him was a little pissed off, but he was mostly just pleased that Geralt was making an attempt to talk to him, even if it was a rather misguided attempt. “How fortunate for you I’m in a good mood and I’m willing to play into your little game, then.”

And gods above, did Geralt look relieved.

So Jaskier waited patiently until Geralt was only in a pair of loose pants. The bard did his best not to pay attention to the way the Witcher’s muscles seemed to ripple with every movement, but found himself admiring anyway. Admiring your ex best friend’s body was normal and healthy, right? Jaskier could still be upset with him and admire his physical beauty.

He was ripped out of his thoughts as Geralt threw a robe his way. It was plain black cloth, but very soft. When the bard looked up, he saw Geralt had covered himself up with something similar. Jaskier quirked up a brow as he asked, “What the hell?”

“You’ll see,” Geralt murmured solemnly. If this were anyone else, Jaskier’s palms would’ve started to sweat. As it was, he found himself thoroughly annoyed instead. “Leave the lute.”

Jaskier only clutched the lute tighter. Leave it behind? This was his prized possession. Part of him knew that Geralt wouldn’t purposefully mislead him, at least not about something this important. The White Wolf had lines that he didn’t cross.

“No one’s going to touch it,” the Witcher answered, a hint of tenderness in his voice as he turned. “I’m the only one allowed in here.”

“And me?”

Geralt hesitated, measuring his words carefully. With a nod, he joked, “Judging by the fact that you are in this room? Yes, Jask.”

The bard hummed, amused at how playful the Witcher had become. Setting the lute gently against a nightstand, Jaskier followed him out. Faintly, he wondered how long this good mood was going to last. Sure, Geralt was trying to win his friendship once more, but what would happen after that? Would this grace period be followed by a return to what their companionship was before? Geralt wasn’t an intentionally cruel man, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a capacity to be excruciatingly harsh.

It wasn’t long until they found themselves in a section of the fortress Jaskier had never seen. They were outside, the chill of the approaching winter seeping into the bard’s very bones. Geralt didn’t seem bothered in the slightest as he led Jaskier to the edge of the fortress to a secluded area. When they were finally close enough, Jaskier could see what they came for.

Hot springs.

“Suddenly I’m understanding why you wanted to go elsewhere,” Jaskier teased, setting the robe aside and taking off most of his clothes. Geralt, already only in minimal clothing, settled himself in.

Geralt hummed, his eyes closed. The Witcher looked younger when he was untroubled, which unintentionally made Jaskier’s heart melt. As he stepped into the waters a distance away from Geralt so that they were facing each other, Jaskier started relaxing too.

Some part of Jaskier told him that he shouldn’t be indulging in the White Wolf’s wishes. The man hadn’t earned it and didn’t deserve it. Still, Jaskier could tell by the look in his eyes that Geralt was trying.

And for the time being, that could be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the boys have reached an amicable place in their relationship, but the real question is how long is it going to last?
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! As always, kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are welcome. Have a lovely day! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my first work that isn't a one shot! By the way, in case you're wondering what Jaskier is singing, it's "Farewell Wanderlust" by Joey Batey's band The Amazing Devil. 100% recommend listening to them. As always, feel free to leave kudos, comments and constructive criticism. Have a lovely day!
> 
> P.S. I have a tumblr now! If you want to leave requests, recommendations, or just want to chat, find me here: https://nerdybirdy6602.tumblr.com/


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